The History of Canadia
by owncode
Summary: All of French-Canadian interactions in history told through their personifications. Francis's love for Matthieu and how they have evolved throughout the scores of years, but have never grown too far apart. M for safety now, and later chapters. Definitely Franada.
1. Chapter 1

**First time writing Hetalia fic. I'm nervous. So, a few things to explain, so please read this. One, yes. France is kind of OCC by fanfic community's standards because he's not a raging perv, but in the first two seasons of the show, you only see raging pervert once or twice, so... Second, I have odd headcannons. I didn't write this as a France=Papa sort of thing, but France=lifelong companion, which means, Francis is portrayed as a mentor to Matthew, rather than his father or brother. Third, I think whatever happens in the country, is portrayed in action by their personifications. My most favorite new idea was civil war and how that is represented. I hope you like it, and yes! it will be Franada.**

**If only. If only I had any right to claim it as mine. Nurp(=nope). Just the specific plotline and the exact order of words. Characters and ideas are owned by their respective persons.**

The first time Francis had been to Canadia, it was not a pleasant trip. His attempts at colonization had ended in failure, but after a fishing post had been set up, he had unpleasantly survived the winter along with four other men.

The reason for his obsession with this part of the New World was a boy he kept seeing. Well, perhaps not boy, but a young teen, that still had the innocence of youth on his features. He wore the furs of the savages that populated the land, but looked completely separate. He had ivory skin, pure as the falling snow. While they had jet-black hair, or shaved heads (neither of which Francis was denying as attractive), this young man had blonde hair, almost identical to Francis's, save for the curl that seemed to defy gravity's wishes. The most captivating, however were his indigo-violet eyes that seemed to steal all one's secrets, albeit softly, gently, coaxingly.

During one of Francis's first scrapes with the natives, the young man attempted to make contact with them before the brutal conflicts that prevented settlement. He had spoken a rough form of Norse and tried a more fluid Gaelic, but still untranslatable to Francis. Then again, it was all he could do to keep his eyes off the lips forming the word and the pink tongue darting out. Francis hoped to have those lips and tongue someday form his language.

After that cruel winter of which only five out of sixteen men survived, Francis returned to France for the rest of the 1500's. The world there was too wild, too... too untamable. Francis loved the harsh beauty of it, the stark white snow, and the skill it took the natives to survive there. In 1608, Francis returned to Canadia, and watched the founding of Quebec City and the discovery of what is now Lake Champlain. He did not see the blonde again until 1635, when he was taking census of New France, as they called it.

The teen was sitting in a church, where they had been called to take the census. He no longer wore the furs he normally wore. Instead, he had adopted a mimicry of Francis's clothing. He was well groomed now; no knots curled in his hair, no dirt smudged his face. His indigo-violet eyes had lost some of their savage edge, the glint of the wild that had excited Francis, but now had a thin veneer of civility and control.

He was no teen now, he was a young man, and looked to be a fine one. He spoke in French, though it had an odd accent to it. A few glanced at him strangely, for they still held the aristocratic French accent. Francis, however, lovingly listened to the way the words rolled off his tongue, though short and erratic in their bursts, loved the growl that lay just beneath the surface, adored the velvet overtones that only aristocrats could master, and the sugar sweet caramel in between the growled undertones and soft overtones.

Francis watched as the census-taker asked the young man his name. When he hesitated, Francis stepped in with a airy, "Bonjour, Matthieu, c'a été des années depuis que nous nous sommes réunis. Monsieur Williams, pourquoi n'avez-vous pas dit bonjour?"

The census-taker had told him to wait for pleasantries later. The young man, now Matthieu Williams, gave his new name. Francis smiled at his intelligence, and gave a wink and a wave as a 'you're welcome' when the man glanced at him with obvious thanks. Francis walked out of the chapel, knowing the man was going to follow eventually. Matthieu did not disappoint.

Slowly, in French, Matthieu said, "We are the same?"

Francis replied, simply, "Oui, mon cher." He gave a dazzling smile.

"And just what is that?" Matthieu asked in French again. The Frenchman could barely contain his emotions. He wanted to have those lips kiss his, have that voice moan, moan his name, scream his name and plead for him in that wonderful accent.

Swallowing France replied nonchalantly, "Vous êtes la Nouvelle France. Je suis la France. Nous sommes les pays personifies." He watched as the man considered the words.

Francis's eyes widened considerably when a medium-sized polar bear wandered up, and sat near Matthieu before tugging on his pants leg. "Who're you?" Matthieu gave a snow-melting, sun-bright smile. "Mon nom est la Nouvelle France, Matthieu Williams."

Fifty years later, fur trapping was all the New French knew. All the new natives spoke Mattieu's beautiful French. The young man stuck in a standstill of growth, because nothing had changed since Francis had laid claim to this wonderful part of the New World. The thought that it was his sent a smug feeling to the pit of his stomach and joy to the wings of his airy heart. The thought that Matthieu and all his land was _all Francis's_ sent lust.

Recently, however, upset rocked New France. Matthieu sat at his home, an odd mix of anger and sorrow and revenge and regret. Francis, for the first few days had sat with Matthieu, lovingly stroking his hair and murmuring to him in soft French. Matthieu lost weight, his eyes were no longer sharp and intelligent with the curiosity of the new, he set no more traps for beavers and small animals. Francis couldn't stand to see his beloved country like this.

The turning point between worrying and action took place on a morning where Francis was holding Matthieu in his lap, both still clinging to the soupy haze of half-consciousness. Matthieu suddenly burst up out of Francis's arms. He screamed at himself in the native's language, a guttural, stuttering language. His face contorted and he began yelling in a surprisingly fluid French. Francis, stunned, watched as he yelled a few more times, flipping between the native language and French.

Then it dawned on Francis. Civil War. The part of Matthieu that clung to the Indian tribes and their hunters was fighting the New Matthieu, the Frenchman. As soon as Matthieu, shouting in French, reached for the musket with his trapping supplies, Francis shot up.

_No, Matthieu could not kill himself. Nononono! _Francis grabbed Matthieu by the shoulder, pulling some hair as well (accidentally), as forcefully as he could, slapped Matthieu, regretting every second but at a loss of what to do otherwise. Matthieu blinked and Francis, eyes tearing, watched as a raised hand print was forming on his cheek. Pain for pleasure? Francis was perfectly okay with it. But to hurt Matthieu for other purposes hurt Francis as well.

Francis hugged Matthieu to him, all but collapsing in the young man's arms. Matthieu relaxed and wound his arms around Francis's hips, supporting the man. He began singing a children's folk song in French, no hint of pause and no stuttering like he wished to say a different word in his native tongue. The polar bear (_Ohdammitwhatwasit'sname?_) curled up at their feet and softly said to Matthieu, "Who're you?"

**Oh, good, I've finally ended on a happy note. Never done that before. 'Nyways, you should be able to decipher the French, I used a translator - ashamed - , so it's probably not correct. Don't kill me for not updating my other stories, pleasepleasplease. Hope you like it. R&R, if you do I'll post moar.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Ohgoodgoddidijustwriteangst? I don't normally do that. Another thing I don't do: I listened to Winter Winds and Little Lion Man by Mumford and Sons while writing this today.**

**If only I owned it. I don't actually _really_ own the plotline, since it's Canada's history, soooo... I own specific order of words.  
**

Matthieu still sometimes spoke in Gaelic to Francis without recognizing it. Francis would smile patiently and tell him he couldn't understand Gaelic. While Matthieu apologized and repeated in French, seething jealousy burned in France. Scotland's influence was there, and he could hear it in the faint accent and the Gaelic. Francis would have done away with Nova Scotia a long time ago, if it wouldn't have hurt his precious Matthieu.

When Matthieu came home one day, frantically speaking French about a man with sandy blonde hair, Francis's eyes narrowed and dismissed the matter entirely. Later, he warned the British bastard to leave the northern part of the New World alone. Arthur simply smirked and teased, "Has Francis finally fallen in love?"

It was not more than four years later when Matthieu left suddenly. Francis paced in his house day and night, sleeping merely when forced to by sheer exhaustion. Francis was sitting outside after three days ('_Three days!' _his mind screamed in protest) when Matthieu stumbled up the dirt road, red blood dripping behind him.

Francis's world very nearly screeched to a halt. Matthieu's hand was covering his shoulder, but the red droplets dripped down his shirt, only there was no shirt where his hand was covering, and his fingers seemed to dip down unnaturally to cover the wound and _ohgodmatthieupleasedon'tdie._

As Francis ran over to him, he screamed in French for the neighbors to call the doctor, screamed hysterically for Matthieu. As he got closer, supporting Matthieu and half-dragging him to the house, he heard Matthieu mumbling.

They were half-formed Gaelic words, and they were the sweetest things Francis had ever heard. They were proof that Matthieu was still alive, was still hanging on. Francis tried to recall what little Gaelic he knew to comfort Matthieu, who just stared at him in an uncomprehending haze.

The doctor arrived and Francis was forced to hold Matthieu as he screamed French obscenities, crying and begging for Francis to help him. Francis held onto Matthieu tighter and begged him to understand that that was what he was doing. What froze Francis in his place was the _English_ curse Matthieu screamed next. "_Francis, you frog!" _He had wailed. Icy cold realization washed over Francis. _Angleterre._

Matthieu recovered the next day. As expected, the flesh was back in its place. The unblemished ivory skin now had a thick and roped scar along the healing line. Matthieu clung to Francis's shoulders, crying quietly. Francis soothed him with words, though his vision clouded red at the sight of that scar.

No matter how much he wished to, he could not enjoy the sight of a shirtless Matthieu. He watched quietly as Matthieu tried to speak Gaelic. Matthieu mumbled a few syllables, then switched a few vowels, and stared at Francis helplessly, eyes tearing once more. Francis stroked his hair and explained slowly in French, "Nova Scotia has been taken by Arthur. You are no longer part Scottish, but-" Francis swallowed, and forced the words out, though they tasted like bile, "-but part English."

Matthieu waved his hands around frantically, shooting up out of the bed. He spoke, but Francis did not hear. All he could see was the bloodstained pants. The neon white, ropy scar on his shoulder, the blood that had crusted on his chest all held his attention. He stared raptly at the indigo-violet eyes that always took Francis's breath away, always stole every horrid secret with a glance, always looked at him adoringly, trustingly, lovingly. This time they had turned a shade of dark purple with fury, taking the floor out from Francis.

Finally, his hearing returned and hissed from Matthieu's gritted teeth, "Arthur?" The words were still wonderfully French-accented, but had lost some of their biting undertones and lyrical rhythm that had come with Gaelic. Now they were a bit more clipped, and the strange beat of words that came with the British had been incorporated (but only slightly) into Matthieu's speech.

Francis desperately wished to drive the Angleterre out of New France, but no moves had been made by his military. Instead he spent the last thirty-three years with Matthieu smiling. He started right after getting lost in Matthieu's (_excitingly)_ furious violet eyes. He hurt on the inside, but his show-stopping smile, perfected over centuries showed nothing.

"Oui," he replied and in nonchalant French, "Angleterre. It is nothing, my darling. Worry not, your Francis will take care of him." At that, Francis promptly patted him on the head, not-so-accidentally brushing the gravity-defying curl (Oh, he'd have to thank Italy for that later) and strode out of the room.

As expected, Matthieu deflated, blushing as dark as rose petals when Francis patted him. As Francis was cooking, he heard Matthieu whisper to Kumajiro, "Oh, I wish he'd stop treating me like a child, Kumachiro. I mean, I could take care of it, I've got a relatively strong right hook." He sighed when the polar bear asked him his name. Francis stopped listening and focused on smiling again. Darkly, he thought, _A strong right hook will not stop that bushy-browed bastard._

He smiled for Matthieu those last thirty-three years. He knew Matthieu saw through it. Knew that his beloved stood outside his study every night, watching Francis drink brandy, though he hated the drink. Heard every curse thrown at Angleterre in a drunken stutter. Each time Francis cried in that dark study, lit only by candlelight that reflected on red velvet, the next morning there would be pancakes, maple syrup, chocolate syrup, orange juice and a bottle of champagne. Matthieu was always there, reading a much-loved book. The one day he was not, there was a rose on the table. It was perfectly as Francis liked his roses. Not completely bloomed, but halfway there, secretive, waiting to deliver its full beauty.

The rest of the day, Matthieu was not home. Francis worried, drinking even heavier, and in his drunken stupor, cursed Matthieu for making him love him. He passed out by early evening and woke up the next morning. Waiting for him were pancakes, bacon, maple syrup, chocolate syrup, orange juice, but no champagne. There was a dark red rose _(true love_, his mind whispered conspiratorially) and a dark purple flower. Heliotrope (_devotion,_ slithered to the front of his mind). Francis, stunned, didn't even notice the polar bear begin eating his pancakes.

That was where Matthieu found him, standing, staring at flowers, room temperature orange juice and forgotten syrups on the table. Matthieu placed his arm on his shoulders and said, "I've taken away the liquor in the house," Francis strained to hear him, "I hope you will respect that. If you buy more, you are not welcome here. _Je suis désolé.__"_

Francis only stared helplessly as the blonde gripped his shoulder, leaned forward, and very lightly pressed two kisses to his cheeks before turning away and trudging up the stairs. Francis toppled back into a chair, and watched Matthieu leave.

His pants were smudged with dirt. His shirt was ruffled. His hair was unkempt. A scrape on his elbow glittered brightly in the light under a half-rolled up sleeve. The other sleeve was down to his wrist, buttoned, as per normal, except the bloodied knuckles.

Matthieu had been fighting. Matthieu had been fighting Angleterre. Francis swallowed as he listened to the sound of running water. A black snake of fury writhed in his belly. _Arthur Kirkland is dead._ Francis jumped as a warm hand rested on his shoulder. Vaguely, he registered that water was not running anymore. A soft murmur of French, "Go to sleep, Francis. I will be here." Francis leaned into that hand. He felt Matthieu lean his head against his shoulder, his soft, warm, peppermint breath sweeping across his skin. Francis silently clung to the warmth, mind babbling what he could not say.

_I'm sorry, Matthieu. I'm sorry I cannot protect you. I'm sorry I'm not a better person. I'm sorry I'm not worthy. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I love you too. I love you so much, but to say it would hurt you. For what is about to happen…. I cannot prepare you and I cannot brace myself, but __for you __to war I will go.__What a pitiful sight, non? The country... of l'amour…. fighting…. for…._

The next morning he awoke on the couch, a blanket over him, and the medium-sized polar bear snoozing on his chest like he did to Matthieu. If the polar bear was with him, then… Matthieu was not.

_"I will be here,"_ Matthieu whispered through his conscious.

Breakfast was on the table. Pancakes, bacon, maple syrup, chocolate syrup, and orange juice, as per usual. This time, the dark red rose (_true love_, his mind insisted), the heliotrope (_devotion_, it all but screamed) and a yellow plant sat, arranged beautifully on the table. After examination, it proved to be rue flowers. Regret. Matthieu wanted to be there, he regretted he could not. Francis was not there the following day. The following month. The following year. And the six after that.

Francis was fighting the Seven Years' War. Normally, his colonies fought for themselves. They received minimal help at best. Francis desperately wanted to send troops to New France, but the British Navy would not allow it, and all soldiers were necessary on the home front. After the first year, his blue military cape ceased to make him twirl and smile charmingly. It disgusted him by the third.

The fourth year, communications from Matthieu had ceased. His last attempt at talking to Francis was flowers. It was a dried purple flower, only a shade lighter than Matthieu's eyes. It was a bell flower. Canterbury Bell. _Gratitude._ As Francis held the Bell with shaking fingers, out from the envelope tumbled a dark red rose, half bloomed_ (__Undying love)__, _a heliotrope_ (__Devotion), _yellow rue flowers_ (__Regret)__, _and a final, pink, wispy-petaled flower. Francis recognized it. _Of course I do,_ he thought bitterly_, __Matthieu knew I would because I love knowing such things. __It was his attempt to communicate with me on my level, I think._

He stared at the hated cyclamen flower. Francis felt the whisper of Matthieu's hand on his shoulder, the gentle, warm, peppermint breath ghosting over his skin. _Goodbye._

He heard Matthieu whisper, _"Go to sleep, Francis. I'll be here." _Then the soul-crushing devastation set in. He felt this ghost-Matthieu lift his head, pull back his hand, trailing it along his shoulders, and heard him, almost silent, _"Goodbye, mon Francis."_

**I'm so nervous about posting this I'm about to die. Please, please, please, review. Also, you 14 Canadian readers make me ridiculously happy for some reason.  
**


	3. Chapter 3

**No real AN this time, except at the end. I own no part of Francis Bonnefoy, and the country he represents, Matthieu Williams, and the country he represents, and no part of Hetalia.**

The next time Francis saw Matthieu, it was on the battlefield, seven years after the last he had looked eyes upon him. Arthur's gun was pointed at his face. Francis had given up. His men lay dead around him. He ached at the loss of them. Felt their wives' pain, their childrens' sorrow, and their brother's pain. Felt every bullet wound, every stab of a bayonet, every pair of eyes closing for the last time.

He had gazed out, hatefully, balefully, at every British soldier out there. A red uniform different from the rest had caught his eye, but he dismissed it as one of Arthur's generals. The tan hat hid his eyes. Blonde hair peeked out from underneath it. The general stood rigidly, militantly, as one of Arthur's was expected to. Francis sneered at him, and was pleased to see an almost imperceptible flinch.

Arthur, thinking Francis was sneering at him (_As if he was worth it, the punk.)_ sneered back and cawed some victory speech. France watched with dull eyes. Arthur pulled the hammer on his gun back; the loud click obnoxious in the tense air. Suddenly, the strange, red-clad man had a revolver at Arthur's head. His men responded immediately, guns aimed at this new figure.

"If you touch him, Mr. Kirkland," Accented English broke through Francis's haze. He _(Matthieu!) _knew_ (MatthieuMatthieuMatthieu)_ that accent, "It will be your fall as well."

Arthur rounded on the figure, screaming at him, "What the bloody hell, Matthew?!" Francis cried at the country silently, _Matthew is a bastardization of your name, yet you say nothing, mon Matthieu?_

"I will not stand for it, Mr. Kirkland. You and I agreed. I go peacefully, and you would not kill Francis. Go back to England. I will join you at the train station," Matthieu polite to the last, and sensible to the end, somehow calmed the raging monster-brows down. Then it was the two of them.

Francis, still kneeling, stared brokenly at his hands. As he stared up at Matthieu's soft indigo-violet eyes, he repeated, "Je suis désolé," like a prayer, chanting it, begging Matthieu to forgive him.

Matthieu crouches, stroking Francis's hair. Matthieu speaks the words Francis is dreading most, "Au revoir, Francis." He pauses and repeats, "Goodbye, Mr. Bonnefoy." Horrifically, the words are spoken in English. As Matthieu stands and turns, Francis grabs at him like a child, hand gripping at the fabric of his jacket, tears blurring his vision. He hugs Matthieu to him, his face pressed against the small of Matthieu's back.

"Non, Matthieu, ne me laissent pas, s'il vous plaît, ne pas aller, s'il vous plait," His voice was muffled against Matthieu, tears hidden. Matthieu's fingers gently removed Francis's, who only turned him around and gripped him tighter, burying his face in Matthieu's warm, firm stomach.

He smelled of maple. Of snow in winter, of pine trees, of smoke, of cinnamon and of sugar. He smelled of cold, yet was very much warm. He smelled wonderful. He smelled like New France.

Words spilled out of Francis faster, "Non, Matthieu, mon Nouvelle France, mon amour, ne disparaissent pas. Ne me laissez pas."

Matthieu smiled gently, though the broken Francis did not see it. Matthieu removed Francis, and said, "Mon nom n'est pas Matthieu. My name is Matthew Kirkland, and I am Canadia."

Pulling a pair of glasses out of his pocket, Matthieu_ (__notMatthew)_ pushed them up his nose. A beefy young man cried from a few feet away, "Yo, Mattie! Whassup? Kirkland wants you to get your butt over to the train station, and as the hero, of course I volunteered…" Francis did not listen as the young man rambled on.

Matthieu_ (__NOTMatthew) _turned and said, "Well, Mr. Alfred, shall we, then?"

The beefy man who rather looked like Matthieu_ (__NOTMATTHEW)__, _but not as beautiful, grinned and said, "Mattie, thought I told you not to call me that. Alfred's like calling Artie Arthur! I'm Al, the greatest hero that ever lived!"

And then Matthieu was gone.

_"Au revoir, Francis. Goodbye, Mr. Bonnefoy." _

Francis lay in that field a long time. He sat and thought. The next time he would see Arthur Kirkland, it was his turn for revenge, he predicted. Just what he did not know was that the beefy twin of Matthieu's and Matthieu himself would be involved.

It was 1776. Of course, France had known about the Revolution a long time. He simply waited for this Alfred to request assistance. He knew the American would need it. Antonio knew of his grudge against England, so he had been secretly adding funds to France's aid program.

After traveling to America, he had learned of Alfred's bullying of Matthieu. His Congress had tried many times to appeal to Mattieu's Parliament. When a letter arrived for Alfred, it was in Mattieu's handwriting.

_I will not, Alfred F. Jones._ It was then that unofficially, New France, no, Canadia had recognized America as a separate country. _So stop trying. And do tell Francis I know about his using my ports to smuggle you goods via the people that support you._

Francis smirked at Matthieu's cunning. He would know that Francis would choose the Dutch to smuggle goods, wouldn't he?

_Sincerely and with best regard, Matthew Kirkland._

Both Francis and Alfred seethed over the way Matthieu had penned his name. 'Matthew' infuriated Francis, but 'Kirkland' had him seeing red. Alfred had growled as he read the last name and promptly burned the letter.

For this slight, Alfred invaded Canadia. Francis unwillingly went along. Then the Battle of Quebec began. Matthieu himself led the charge. His indigo-violet eyes were purple with rage. Sweat dripped down his face. His glasses were crushed at an American's feet. Matthieu simply paid no attention, hate burning in his eyes. When Matthieu ran out of bullets in his musket, he paid no heed to the fact that his weapon had no bayonet on its muzzle.

He smashed in an American's head before coming face to face with Alfred. As Francis warily surveyed the battlefield, he saw that one of Alfred's generals was dead, another wounded, and more than 400 hundred already taken prisoner.

Alfred and Matthieu stood facing each other from across the city's street. Alfred surveyed his men with horror. Matthieu seemed to channel his Indian ancestors and, flinging a forgotten knife, hit Alfred in the stomach, surely making his mark in the stubborn American's memory.

_ "__Get out, America! This is not your country! This is not your property. We are not Americans! We are no redcoats! We are no French! This is Canadia!"_ Matthieu howled at Alfred. His troops behind him roared victoriously, all of them watching the retreating Revolutionists. Francis left quietly, without a word to Matthieu.

Francis knew Alfred had been firmly scolded when his Congress had sent out "To the Inhabitants of the Providence of Quebec", trying to convince Canadians to defect. Alfred was not defeated however. Francis did not go with him this time. He knew it would be a fruitless endeavor.

Which was true. Alfred came back with frostbite and hypothermia after trying to survive the winter holding Canadia without the proper forces. He did not try again, wisely.

Francis, Alfred, Matthieu, and Arthur all faced each other on the final battlefield. Alfred and Arthur stood with their gun cocked, pointed at each other. Francis idly wondered when Angleterre would realize he loved l'Amerique. He and Matthieu stood behind their respective allies, facing each other.

Francis stood casually, but every muscle in his body was tensed and ready for action. Matthieu stood with hands clasped behind his back, back rigid straight, and a coldly neutral look on his face. _He has new glasses__, _Francis noticed.

After Kirkland collapsed to his knees, crying, Francis felt a dark satisfaction._Yes, your loving companion taken away from you, it hurts doesn't it, Arthur? _Alfred had left as soon as the words, "I remember when you used to be great," were uttered.

Francis had leaned down and said, "We are even, Angleterre. You took Matthieu and I helped Alfred_leave_ you."

Francis jerked up as a sharp call of, "Francis," was uttered. Matthieu stared at him. "May we talk?" Francis did not like the disciplined sound of the words. The double timbre of voice that ordered total obedience and made his question sound an order. Wretchedly, he wished for the soft voice, the carefree tone, the laughter, the childish giggle and the blush.

Francis nodded dumbly.

Matthieu flicked his hand, and two British soldiers escorted Arthur away. Another flick of the hand sent the rest of them with Arthur. After Francis had done away with his soldiers (who were reluctant to leave), Matthieu spoke. He cleared his throat first, and his cheeks were dusted with pink. Ah, the cracks in the mask finally appeared.

"Francis," He started, "There are things-" He paused, swallowed, and continued in French, "There are things you need to know." Francis nodded, a smile on the inside. Matthieu must be about to proclaim his undying love. Right? Of course, right.

What was said next, however, felt like his stomach was being punched, his chest compressed, and his heart sinking to his feet, and a stunning blow to the head. "I went with Monsieur Kirkland. Willingly."

It was then Francis noticed that Matthieu was his height. He had grown. He spoke English. Spoke it rather fluently, actually. He wore glasses. His hair was shorter. Francis tried to speak around what felt like a collapsing windpipe. "Matthieu," he croaked, "please, do not say such things."

Matthieu stared at him, hands clasped behind his back, though his posture relaxed. "Let me finish, Monsieur Bonnefoy."_Monsieur Bonnefoy,_ Francis repeated, _why, Angleterre? What have you done to mon Matthieu?_ "I went with Monsieur Kirkland willingly. To protect the both of us. I knew you did not have the strength to win the war. I did not have the strength to keep my people safe. I did, however, have the option to keep you safe and alive," Matthieu continued, "I went with Monsieur Kirkland willingly to ensure your life would be spared."

Roses for undying love. Rue for regret. Heliotrope for devotion. Cyclamen for goodbye. _He left so I could live. He calls me Monsieur Bonnefoy._ Roses for undying love. _Does he not love me anymore?_ Rue for regret. _Does he regret leading me in such a fashion?_ Cyclamen for goodbye. _Does he truly wish to say goodbye?_ Matthieu moved forward, his gait unsure.

Francis did all he could not to collapse on his knees again. Gloved hands wound around his shoulders, soft hair brushing against his cheek, the warmth of another body on his. A ghost of a whisper against the shell of his ear, "I did it because…. Je t'aime."

Francis pulls back and kisses him with the desperation of a man possessed, on his last breath, trying for salvation so he might get into Heaven. Francis kissed him in the field of blood and murder, of happiness and grief, of victory and of loss. Matthieu responded, clutching Francis just as desperately, clinging onto the brief moment of salvation they found in the world of wretchedness.

Their lips finally parted. Francis was panting. All he had was poured into that kiss. Every loving thought, every lustful glance, every unsure feeling, all that he wanted to say, and more. He felt the desperate need for loved to be returned from Matthieu. Panting, he began to say, "Matthieu-"

The indigo-violet eyes hardened into ice. "Say nothing. I must go." And with a sharp pivot on his heels, Matthieu was gone. "Oh, Matthieu…" Francis sighed, "You confuse, bewilder, exhaust and excite me, all at the same time."

**So, look, guys. I'm not posting anymore because the lack of reviews, the lack of favorites disappoints me. I've felt it's one of my better works, and to have no response makes me think people don't review and don't favorite because they hate it, which is rather draining. So, what i have thought is a fantastic idea, and one of my better styles of writing, and my best fanfic, I'm going to leave unfinished. Should anyone ask for more, they shall receive it. Got it? NO MORE. I AM DONE. I GET NO REVIEWS, I FEEL LIKE IT'S SHIT, SO I'M STOPPING UNTIL YOU TELL ME OTHERWISE.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Oh, mon dieu, you guys make me feel like I blow everything out of proportion. Anyway, I'm posting replies to reviews at the end of the chapter, so if you reviewed look for it there! HEY, hey, hey, I got your attention? 'Cause if you like this story, I'm about to make you happy. I'm going to *try* and update everyday. I own nuffin'.**

As Francis was staring out a window of a train taking him to Paris he realized he was one step closer to Matthieu and an eternity away. He sighed. Did Matthieu think that he regretted the kiss? _Non,_ he decided, _Matthieu was only _scared_ I might._ He smiled a bittersweet smile. _One step closer…. And an eternity away._

Life without Matthieu went on. Time passed and Francis pined for his lost love less. He found some to warm his bed, but, they all reminded him of Matthieu in some way. It left a faint bitter taste in his mouth. The first had soft blonde hair, only missing a certain curl and needed to be a shade lighter. The next had indigo-violet eyes, but too blue to be his favorite color. The third had Matthieu's nimble hands, but instead of waking up to soft strains of simple piano music, Francis woke up to the violin. The fourth was a girl named Madeline. She had Matthieu's soft voice. She was the current one.

The Letter had arrived after a romp in bed with her. The Letter (It carried enough weight in Francis's mind to warrant capitals) was in flowing, slanted cursive. Francis knew. Though there was no name, there was no doubt.

_I am thinking of asking for independence._

Madeline was gone two days later. Francis did not wish her gone, but she had seen him on the living room sofa, a cigarette between his shaking fingers and The Letter staring at the ceiling. She_ knew _as well. She had hugged him to her and with as much softness and kindness as Matthieu, said, "Go to him, Francis."

Francis had not. He had meant to, and then the War of 1812 happened. Matthieu suddenly experienced an influx of American immigrants, had his land taken away from him, and now, forbidden by Arthur, thought of building a republic. Francis heard all this second-hand from l'Amerique or Angleterre.

The next he heard was Britain talking about some rebels in Canadia. Francis wanted to see Matthieu. He knew how horrid war was, much less civil war. He sat in his bed at night, wondering if the musket with Matthieu's trapping supplies was still there. Wondered if it was within reach. Wondered if he would wake up tomorrow to find Matthieu dead. Francis would hit his hand against his head and call himself stupid.

One of the following days, Arthur handed him a paper that had what looked like a speech on it. Francis glanced at it.

_"Your blood and race will now be supreme, if true to yourselves,"_ Francis read aloud, "_You will be English ''at the expense of not being British,'' To whom and what, is your allegiance now?"_ Francis stared in horror.

"Best bloody words, you 'er did 'ear, right?" Arthur stated proudly, having the gall to polish his fingernails on his shirt collar.

"_Mon ami,"_ Francis tried gently, after all it was best to reason with Angleterre, "Couldn't you try being…. Less… less…."

"Less?" The monster brows demanded.

"Less…. Condescending," Francis finished painfully. The monster brows seemed to fill the space with an ominous aura as they drew down into angry caterpillars. Francis tried not to laugh at the… things. _I can't very well call them eyebrows_, he mused, and almost lost silence to a childish giggle.

They twitched. Francis was punched as he began to laugh.

Some parts of him felt inappropriate for laughing because he knew those words were going to be read to Matthieu and his country. It is why he sat and did not raise a hand against Arthur.

It was not long after Matthieu stood at an Allies meeting. That first day, he commanded the room because it was a rare occasion when Matthieu _needed_ to speak. Francis remembered the determined look in his eyes.

"I need your attention." Everyone quieted, even Italy, who had somehow snuck into the meeting again. "My name is Matthew Williams." Francis had silently cheered that the horrible 'Kirkland' name was no longer attached. " I am Canadia, or as some of you refer to me, Canada. I am an independent, free-willed country. I am not America, no matter how much we look alike. I am not the fiercest country. I am not the best fighter. I am not a strong country. But I am not weak. I am not careless. Britain has already recognized Canadia's independence. We are our own country, and I demand to be treated as such."

It was quiet for a moment, and then the raucous Alfred jumped up, hitting Matthieu on the back in congratulations. Britain glared at both his former colonies. Yao handed Matthieu some rice balls (Francis chuckled), and said enthusiastically, "Welcome, err… Anyway, I am China. When China powerful, I will take all."

Russia inclined his head and with a smile said, "Da~, welcome, Comrade Matvey."

Italy bounded up and everyone paused. Oblivious as ever to where he was, Italy grinned at Matthew. "Hello! I am-a Italy, but you can call me Feliciano~, I have a brother named Lovino, but he is mean and – Ah! You have one too, ve!" Italy stroked the curl. Matthieu turned the red of his military uniform and stifled a groan. "Francis, you did not-a tell me he had-a one too, ve!" Italy exclaimed the words, turning around toward Francis, and still stroking the curl.

Matthieu unconsciously leaned into Feliciano. The room erupted into chaos. Russia turned to America and began pulling on Nantucket. Francis leaped out of his seat and ripped Matthieu away from Feliciano. Arthur seemed to try to yell at both Francis and Matthieu and Russia and America at the same time. He tried to yell at Russia to stop stroking America's curl and for America to stop enjoying it.

Francis paid no mind, instead focusing on Matthieu shivering and panting into him, leaning heavily against him. Then Angleterre yelled for Matthieu to stop rubbing himself on Francis like a cat in heat. Matthieu, overstimulated, overworked, and worn out, erupted into tears.

Francis did not like the sudden turn of events. He rubbed Matthieu's back soothingly, whispering in French to the man. A polar bear squished between them growled threateningly. Francis hoped it was not at him.

Matthieu hiccupped and began patting Kumajiro, finding comfort in the warm fur of the soft animal. Kumajiro growled again, this time, Francis knew it was at him. He wisely backed away. Alfred, seemingly, out of Russia's grips, bounded up.

"Hey, kiddo, stop crying! It's gonna' be _allll_ better now that the hero's here!" Alfred boomed. "Just, err, what's your name again?"

"Who're you?" Kumajiro echoed.

"I'm Canada," Matthieu said helplessly to the both of them, "Alfred, I'm your brother. Kumaniro, I'm your owner!"

And just like that, Matthieu was accepted into the Allies. The meeting went along normally. Matthieu, though himself forgotten, was remembered in the presence that the others seemed to sense. Only Francis and Ivan seemed to pay attention to the fact that Matthieu was in the room.

And life was good. Matthieu had not participated in the First World War, so no scars existed on him. No damage to his psyche. Francis tried not to remember those days or his cowardice in defecting from the French army.

But Francis was wise. He was an Old Nation, after all. Such peace was not meant to be. He and Arthur would share glances sometimes, and they both knew. So when Germany attacked Poland, Francis and Arthur exchanged a glance and nodded solemnly. Francis, along with Arthur, declared war on Germany on September 3rd, 1939. Seven days later, September 10th, Canadia declared war.

Francis fought with the fire of a man defending his home, May 1940. All his men were angered that such a pig dare enter their homeland. They felt the battle as surely as Napoleon felt battle. With fire, with fervor, with white-hot, searing, branding iron hot passion.

Canadia was there, too. He did not lie in the trenches as Francis did. He fought with metal wings. Francis sometimes stopped to watch the German planes and Japanese kamikaze fighters and saw Matthieu's easy skill and tactical ability at fighting and bombing.

Only once did he see Matthieu's plane go down. He watched in horror as the plane hit the ground and caught fire. He saw a figure, curved and ever moving under the waves of heat clamber out of the plane. Matthieu turned toward his plane, saw the one that crashed him, took out his pistol and with cool precision, emptied his revolver.

He began running toward French trenches. Francis heard the battle-hungry cries of new soldiers behind him. So, Canadia had joined the land, the air, and the sea. As Matthieu sprinted forward, Francis heard a French cry of 'Stop, German!' Francis turned, world slowing, a soldier's gun pointed at Matthieu, his finger was on the trigger, it clamped down.

The loud _crack_ of the gun came too fast for Francis's hand to deter the aim. He slapped the gun out of the stupid, insolent boy's hand.

Matthieu jerked back, hit, (_ohmondieunon)_ blood ripping out of him, forcefully ejected by the bullet. "_Matthieu!"_ Francis screamed.

**So, I've completely buggered timeline. I skipped World War One, because Canada had no real... anything in that battle, really, just sent supplies to England. There'll be more combat next chapter, believe you me. I should spend some time with WW2.**

**'Nyways,  
**

**JulietGivesUp **- Canadia just makes better sense to me. Canadians, Canadia. Also, it sounds more dramatic and majestic. Hope it doesn't bug you too much. ^-^

**Anon **- You are a wonderful anon, whoever you are. No, I think of Francis as very clingy, xD Thanks so much. It makes me feel better to know people like it.

** .5 **- 2 reviews? I feel honored~. Well, here's the beginning of the drama in World War 2, which _will_ be continued. I hope it lives up to your expectations! :)

**dark1988 **- Oh, thank you! I almost felt Matthieu was a bit OOC, but it's good to hear otherwise! Ah, you are one of my Canadian readers? You make me happy. Definitely wouldn't have given up, just wouldn't have posted.


	5. Chapter 5 Short Story

**Just as I say I try to update every game, I'm forced to go to a football game, my friend tells me she has an eating disorder, and I'm freaking out and I really want to write, but I can't get to my computer. Ugh. Anyway, it's just a bit longer than normal, and I've included a special short story for a reviewer who requested it. If you reviewed, check at the end!  
**

**Chapter 5**

Francis could not leave the trenches. No military leave was given. He knew Matthieu's country had not emphasized defense, so it was no wonder Matthieu would be so careless. Francis growled. The stupidity of his own soldiers. Did they not recognize a Canadian uniform? The tan pilot's outfit was hard to miss.

The new Canadian soldiers seemed to sense Francis's discomfort with the situation. And just as Francis's people knew his general emotions, the Canadians seemed to know Matthieu's, Francis had figured out when a Canadian soldier walked up. With all sincerity, he said, "It's okay, eh? He knows it's not your fault."

Matthieu was back within a week. He had walked out of the medic's tent after a check-up, pushed his falling glasses up, and gazed about. Every Canadian soldier cheered and grabbed Matthieu up. There were drinks that night for them. Francis drank quietly in a corner, watching the lively cheer about him. Then, Matthieu, piss-drunk, sauntered up, swishing his hips.

Francis swallowed, vaguely recognizing music in the background. He felt a warm body press against his, a hand gently pulling his wine out of his own hand, Francis didn't breathe, anticipation racing in his veins.

"Dance with me, Francis."

It was sultry, it had intent behind it, and it was a whisper of air on the shell of his ear. Francis swallowed again, feeling sandpaper in his throat. Matthieu wound their fingers together, pulling the dazed Francis out of his chair.

They did not go far. There weren't many dancers. A few of the looser nurses danced with some soldiers in the shadows of firelight, but most of the soldiers sat around the fire, singing along or talking. Matthieu laced his arms around Francis's waist, leaning his forehead against Francis's. Unconsciously, Francis looped his arms around Matthieu's neck.

_He's taller than me,_ Francis realized dumbly.

Both swayed from side to side. Francis smelled the alcohol on Matthieu's breath. _He would be a beer drinker._ He smelled the light smell of maple and the heady, mind fogging smell of smoke. Francis exhaled. He felt fingertips lightly trace patterns on the small of his back. Francis held back a shiver of delight.

As the last strains of music played through the air, Matthieu leaned forward, lips brushing against Francis's. Francis tightened his grip around Matthieu's neck, deepening the kiss. He heard Matthieu moan. He smiled delightedly as the arms around his waist tightened and brought their hips together.

Francis broke away. Something was very, very wrong. He groaned in pain. He heard gunshots. _Germany has broken through our borders._ Matthieu was shaking Francis's shoulders, asking what was wrong.

_"Allemands," _Francis croaked. Matthieu nodded sharply and issued a command the to confused men. He had always had the better sense of the two. Matthieu tugged on Francis's shoulder's trying to pull him up. Francis followed, sluggishly.

He no longer felt his people were his. He… wasn't… France… right now… Francis fell to his knees. He heard Matthieu yelling at him, tears in his eyes. Francis blinked for an eternity. Everything had shifted. Matthieu was screaming for him, being carted away by his boss and his soldiers.

Francis's eyes fluttered shut.

"_France is lost!"_ he heard a Canadian shout. Probably Matthieu's boss.

The next time he woke, Francis was in cuffs, chained to a desk. Germany sat across from him, hard lines etched into his face. "Germany will control the north and the west of France. Italy will occupy the southeast. The new collaborative government between France and the Axis will run the unoccupied zone. You will remain there as an Axis Power. Be grateful."

It was as the German said. Francis had been dropped at the unoccupied zone on June, 1940. Matthieu and Arthur were there. Matthieu followed Arthur, face schooled. Arthur left after Francis arrived at his new home. Matthieu walked in with him, ever the solider.

"Canadian defense is more important than aid right now. I have shipped 55 million rounds of small arms ammunition and 75,000 Ross rifles for you. Please use them in undermining the Axis. I hope you will do so, because I have left myself in a shortage for you. France will be freed, I assure you," Matthieu said with finality. He saluted Francis. The gesture stung.

Francis gripped Matthieu's neck and dragged him in for a kiss. Matthieu bent slightly in Francis's grip. Pulling away a fraction of an inch, Francis sighed and whispered, "_Mon Nouvelle France."_ Matthieu said nothing and walked away.

Immediately, a bottle of brandy was opened. The whole thing was drunk, despite its abhorred taste.

Francis dutifully obeyed the Axis. They gave him orders at the meetings they held. They also told him about the war. They told him of the Dieppe Raid, though Francis knew of it.

Nearly 5,000 of Matthieu's inexperienced soldiers had landed on the coast of occupied France with 1,000 British soldiers. A large air raid had happened as well. The gunfire was directed to avoid civilian casualties. That was how Francis knew Matthieu had flown overhead. Dieppe was captured. Francis had felt a twinge above his right hip, and felt a small urge to make pancakes with maple syrup. Matthieu must have been hungry.

Italy complained of the Invasion of Sicily. France had to listen to his younger brother complain of his ''lover'' and how Francis should tell him to stop, because Matthieu paid no attention to his white flag or his ass-kissing.

The path of war Matthieu raged became the Italian Campaign. During the Campaign, 25,000 Canadians were lost. All lost to Germans, of course, as all Italy did was run in front of Matthieu waving a white flag. Matthieu successfully captured Sicily, and was very successful in holding it. Italy's 've' had now become 'eh'. Francis thought it endlessly amusing.

Then it was D-Day. Francis had felt, on a subconscious level, Matthieu land on Juno Beach. Matthieu fought like a madman, overcoming more territory than Angleterre, or l'Amerique, the self-proclaimed hero. Francis and his people rallied, standing with Matthieu. They fought against some of the strongest-trained German troops. Matthieu fought and conquered for the city of Caen, then Falaise, then Paris. Matthieu was running on fumes by Falaise, and out of professionalism, refused to acknowledge the civilians running with the troops, supporting them in any way shape or form. He did them the small favor of allowing them that and the chance to support their country by not forcing them out of combat. In doing so, however, he lost any chance to talk to Francis.

As soon as Matthieu found l'Amerique, who had promptly offered a 'high-five', the liberation of Paris, Francis's heart, commenced. Matthieu and Germany had stood in front of a store shop. Matthieu, stared at him, wild indigo eyes, sweat pouring down his face, dirt smearing it.

_Was this the boy he had found so long ago? The one who smiled freely, the one who never caused harm, the one who loved? Was this Matthieu?_

"Get out," he snarled, "Get out and never come back."

_This was. Though so much hurt had come at Matthieu's fingertips, he let the Germans go. He let them leave._

Some part of Francis bristled at the thought, and wondered if Matthieu did not care enough to revenge him, but then he remembered the smiling eyes and thought of the cold eyes. He saw l'Amerique mercilessly beating Germans out of France. And then Francis let go of that thought.

_Matthieu was not a brute. He would not hurt unnecessarily, like his brother._

Germany had left. Matthieu had rallied all the soldiers, proving to be the leader of this rag-tag bunch of Frenchman, Americans, and Canadians. They mourned their lost brother, their lost mother, their lost sister, and their lost father. They celebrated life; they celebrated liberty.

Matthieu did not return to Canada immediately. He spent lazy days with Francis, basking in the sunlight, sharing dinners and conversations. He did not stay with Francis, however. He chose to buy a small house just about a block away. Francis smiled through the hurt of that gesture.

One day, Matthieu introduced a boy to him. He called him Newfoundland, a providence of his. The boy clung to Matthieu, who only smiled at Francis and wandered away to help the child.

Francis was drinking one night when Matthieu arrived at his doorstep. "You would make a good husband, you know," Francis had said conversationally, crushing the hope that rose in his stomach.

Matthieu blushed and mumbled, "Are you proposing to me, Francis?"

Francis barked out laughter, "I meant for a woman. A good husband… and a good father."

"I don't want to be one," Matthieu had said, sipping his drink. "I find children amusing, I like them, but to have one of my own? And unless the woman looked like you, I don't think I could love her."

Francis suddenly felt guilty for his lovers while away from Matthieu. Apparently it showed on his face, because Matthieu quickly backpedaled, "I mean, not- not to say I- I love you, heh! No! It-it can be just-just lust if-if that's what you, uh… want…?"

Francis gripped Matthieu's jaw lightly, tilting his head up to look at him. He kissed Matthieu.

_"Je t'aime, Matthieu."_

**Ah, a chapter finished. Read and Review and receive chapters and love. I do so love my reviewers.  
**

**JulietGivesUp - **Thank you, thank you, thank you. It's good that you like the way Canada is portrayed, I did go back to his roots a bit here, though. Ahaha, I catch your drift, thanks!

**dark1988** - Here you are, a whole chapter dedicated to World War 2! Hope you liked it!

**verflores13 ** - Thank you! I tried to portray Matthieu and Francis differently than what I normally read, good to hear it worked well.

**Selena Nightingale - **Flattery will get you everywhere. Like getting you a new chapter.

**michele . staffiere . 5 -** Battle of Vimy Ridge, eh? Capturing the Passchendaele, you say? ( This poor American reads from the internet what history Canada has. Forgive her. ) Have a short story, I say! In Matthieu's Point of View, nonetheless!

**Extra -Matthew's Victory  
**

Matthew stared out at the land. He was northeast of Arras, he knew, and on the western edge of the Douai Plains. France felt like his home away from home. _But with less snow_, he conceded. He was here under Arthur's orders. He was, after all, Matthew Kirkland, and a Kirkland had a duty to the head of the household.

It was the British way. Especially with their monarchies.

Arthur had told him that the Vimy Ridge had fallen under German control. Francis had called in a favor from Arthur. Matthew had been ordered along, as his providence. Matthew thought bitterly again about forming a republic. _Well,_ he mused, _it isn't so bad. This time. I get to see Francis._

For this battle, four of Matthew's Canadian divisions had been assembled to participate. Arthur was there as backup for Matthew, who idly wondered if he was just cannon fodder. He had received three times the normal amount of ammunitions. Arthur must have really wanted to do this favor for Francis, but still retain a degree of separation.

Matthew walked along the underground tunnels. They really were hellish. Matthew's nose crinkled in disgust. They were rank with the stench of death and fear, of blood and sulfur. Arthur and his men had shelled out new ones, made for guerilla warfare. Good. That was the way Matthew fought.

It was a February morning when Matthew had heard about the defect. One of his soldiers had defected in the night. Stoically, he listened to Arthur rant at him. He listened to Arthur's generals yell at him. He watched the men listen to him. He did not yell, he did not scream.

Instead, "I do not know how such a man could deceive and betray us. I do, however, know the righteous anger I feel. I know you feel the same. Use that in the battle." He had walked away right afterward.

The battle began Easter Monday, though supposed to start Easter Sunday. The weather was sleet and snow. Matthew's men were in his element. They knew how to move and move quickly in this terrain. It blew into the German's faces, providing the British-Canadians with even more cover. The guns were recalibrated and with force that vibrated in Matthew's chest, fired in synchronicity. At exactly 5:30, Matthew ordered every artillery piece to fire. Thirty seconds later, Matthew ordered the explosions of the land mines in no-man's-land.

He felt the blood on his hands as the landmines destroyed strong German points and created secure communication trenches. Matthew gave the order for fire against known defenses. He watched the earth-rocking explosions with a solemn face. As he silently apologized to those already dead and those about to die, he felt a presence behind him.

"Yes, Mr. Kirkland?" He asked politely.

"Company's with me, boy," Arthur sniffed, "Turn around and say ''ello' like a proper lad."

Matthew pivoted on his heel and promptly greeted, "Hello, Mr. Kirkland, was there something you needed?"

"The frog wished to say 'ello," Arthur sneered before stomping off. As he did, he revealed Francis, watching Matthew sadly. "Bonjour, Matthieu," he said, smiling through the look in his eyes.

Matthew swallowed. Francis couldn't be here to see him. Why would he? No. He couldn't. "Did you wish to see the battle, Mr. Bonnefoy?"

"Non, mon Nouvelle France. I wished to see you," Francis said softly, taking a hesitant step forward.

Matthew motioned for him to come stand next to himself. Francis did. "See what I have ordered, Francis. I have ordered Death. In a way, I have become Death."

Francis gripped Matthew's wrist tightly. Matthew saw him staring in his peripheral vision. "Am I not terrifying? I have this power. You, an Old Nation, should know it well. I-"

Francis Bonnefoy interrupted, lacing his fingers between Matthew Kirkland's, and said softly, "I find Death's robes ill-suited for you, Matthieu Williams."

A radio crackled loudly. "Germans are retreating, I repeat, Germans are retreating! What are your orders, sir!"

Matthew grabbed the radio and shouted into it, "Advance the assault! All Divisions, I order you, capture the Black Line!"

Francis realized Matthew had not yet let go of his hand. He smiled gently. They stayed together until 7 am. Then, Matthew was called again on the radio.

"Black Line captured, sir! All Divisions in place!" What orders!"  
"Proceed with the advance! Capture the Red Line! 1st British-Canadian Brigade!"

A new voice answered, "Sir!"

Matthew stayed by that radio faithfully for the next four days. Francis did not always stay with him. Matthew had an inkling that Francis was there more often than he knew. And on that fourth day, by nightfall, Vimy Ridge was France's again.

British-Canada had suffered 10,602 casualties. 3, 598 had died. 7,004 were wounded. 4,000 Germans were prisoners of war.

Matthew was expected to give the closing speech to the soldiers as the active Commanding Officer. He faced them. He did not smile. He stared at them, studying them. And then he _knew_ the words to say.

"It was not Britain that won this war. It was not France. It was not the Germans. It was not British-Canadia. No! It was all Canadia! No others! Britain was there to help _us,_ not the other way around! As I look out at your faces, do you know what that tells me? It tells me that we are an independent country, strong and proud! We can fight battles against giants like Germany and win! We need no omnipotent sovereignty like the Queen! We have our own ruling government! We are Canadia!"

Francis had told him he was a natural leader. Arthur had cuffed him over the ear and growled, "You are still my providence, boy. Don't go thinking anything otherwise."


	6. Chapter 6

**I'm so, so, so, so, SO sorry this is so short, guys. It's mostly a bit of fluff as I head up to present history, which will conclude the story! Thanks so much for all your love and support. And for those who don't review (-shames-), I still love you anyway, darling!**

Matthieu stayed at his house far more often now. Matthieu always kissed him sweetly at the end of the night. Francis wished for more, but he knew how unsure Matthieu was. Francis did not want to pressure him, and he definitely did not want to pressure him in a time of turbulence.

Matthieu called it Révolution Tranquille when speaking in French. _The Tranquil Revolution._ Matthieu had enjoyed prosperity. Now his people wanted change. He wanted higher education for his English students. His French were already quite smart and pursued higher education. Not that Francis found that a bragging matter. A Ministry of Education was formed. Then a Ministry of Social Affairs, which became Health and Social Services. He was very torn however. Québec, France's original city, wished for independence from Canada. Matthieu felt as if he was in two. The movement was squashed however.

Matthieu felt that hurt for a long time, but things seemed to turn better when Francis came home from his waiting job. He had not expected to see Matthieu. Matthieu was sitting outside his front door. As he saw Francis pull up in his car, he all but flung open the car door, pulled Francis out, closed the door, pushed Francis up against the car door, and promptly kissed him.

He had nibbled at Francis's bottom lip, sending shivers down to Francis's fingertips, which were currently tangled in Matthieu's hair. Francis kissed Matthieu deeper, tasting maple and pancakes. His mind fogged with the intoxicating smell of smoke and light floral scent. All he felt was Matthieu. The warmth of Matthieu, the panting chest against his, his body pressing Francis into the car, all Matthieu. His hearing was overrun by the sound of his pounding heartbeat and Matthieu's panting breath as he kissed along his jaw, nipping at his pulse point.

Then a warm, _furred_ body wiggled its way in between their legs. "Hungry!" It demanded of Matthieu. The two men froze, Francis's head in the crook of Matthieu's shoulder, who was panting.

"Hungry!" It demanded again. It was a certain polar bear who, at this moment, deserved no name.

Matthieu swallowed and lifted his weight from Francis. "Fine, Kuma. I'll make some salmon."

"Pancakes!" It demanded.

Matthieu kissed Francis apologetically, "May I?" Francis whispered back, "Only if you stay the night." Matthieu smiled and nodded. Francis kissed him. Then felt sharp pain in his calf.

The horrid creature was digging its teeth into Francis's legs. "Kumakichi! Bad polar bear!" Matthieu expertly hooked his fingers behind Kumakichi's (_Wasn't it Kumajiro?) _canines and unclamped the polar bear's sharp jaws.

"Sorry! Bad polar bear! Here, just…. Hold him while I make pancakes!" Matthieu scurried into Francis's house.

Francis held the thing at arm's length, which just stared blankly at him. "Why don't you like me?" He shook his head lightly.

"Left," It replied simply.

"I… left…?" Francis replied disbelievingly.

"Left Matt. Matt sad," It nodded decisively. "You leave again. Matt sad again."

"I won't leave him this time. I promise."

"Who're you? Pancakes! Matthew!"

Francis sighed. Pancakes it was. Hopefully this stupid bear would stop ruining things now.

It squirmed out of his arms and bounded after Matthew into his house. Francis sighed, smiled, and locked his car before following them. Kicking off his shoes, he yelled to Mattieu in the kitchen, "So, what's the occasion, mon amour?"

He had made an effort to remember English for Matthieu, who had adopted bilingualism, but still spoke English, primarily.

"I got a flag! And an anthem!" Matthieu replied excitedly, only yelling loud enough so only Francis could hear him. Francis walked into the kitchen, lovingly watching the skilled man. "How does it go, then?" He asked.

He watched a light blush powder Matthieu's cheeks. He grinned teasingly, as Matthieu protested, "I can't sing!" Francis pouted. "Sing it once and I shall sing with you. Or at least hum it, Matthieu."

Matthieu grumbled for a second, mixing batter. He flicked some flour at Francis and, quickly, to prevent retaliation, started singing, "O Canadia! Our home and native land! True patriot love in all thy sons command…" Francis listened to Matthieu. He didn't know what the man meant by 'I can't sing!' Of course he could.

This was what Francis had wanted in his life. Matthieu there, to tell him small things about his day, wake up in the morning with Matthieu by his side, have him hum songs in the kitchen as he cooked food for the both of them, have him there to listen to Francis's stupid little problems.

He smiled and started singing in French to Matthieu's national anthem. He watched the giant smile across Matthieu's face that only made him smile even wider.

As they both sat in the kitchen, laughing with pure happiness, Matthieu leaned over and pecked Francis on the cheek. "Love you, too, Francis."

**Yay! Conclude chapter 6. I own jacksquat.**


	7. Chapter 7

Matthieu had stayed the night. This night was different from those spent with Madeline, Jeanne, and Matt. When they had stayed, there was no love. They were quick fucks and they understood that and enjoyed what little time was spent there.

Matthieu and Francis had sat on the sofa, a fireplace crackling softly in the background, being used to heat the house. They had simply talked. Matthieu had sung his anthem again and Francis had composed a French version for him. Matthieu complained of Kumajiro's ravenous appetite, Francis showed off Pierre's capabilities as a message-bird. Then they had cuddled, a book in Francis's hand, Matthieu in Francis's lap, with Francis's hand gently playing with Matthieu's hair. His head was on the shoulder unattatched to the hand with the book, breath light and warm across Francis's neck. His eyes fluttered sleepily, eyelashes tickling Francis's neck. At one point he mumbled in French, "I'm falling asleep, Francis," who placed a kiss to the crown of Matthieu's head and whispered back, "Bonne nuit, mon amour."

They had spent the morning together making breakfast before Matthieu was called away by work. Francis had received a letter of rambling apologies about a week later. He had smiled and written one back. Thus began their constant communication.

Then cellphones became widespread. Francis and Matthieu were five hours apart, but they still found the time to talk to one another. Of course, Francis often called him very late (early, by Matthieu's standards) to tease him about wishing for some love and being so very lonely. Matthieu knew about these calls, but still answered with grudging fondness.

The next time they saw each other, however, was 2000, when it was Matthieu's turn to host the Summit Meeting. All was decadent in Quebec when the other countries arrived. It was clear painstaking care had been taken in the décor, the care of the hotel, and the conference room where the meeting itself was to take place.

The first morning had found Francis outside the kitchen, where he found Matthieu, chattering away happily with the chefs. Francis knew he had caught Matthieu's eye, but no acknowledgement was given. This set Francis in a bad mood, so when the Angleterre came up, noisily being himself, Francis picked a fight.

When the two were almost to blows, Matthieu appeared and whisked Angleterre away, talking easily of trade negotiations. Jealousy burned a dark hole into Francis's stomach when Matthieu placed his hand on Angleterre's shoulder while he was leading him away.

It was through glaring at Matthieu for causing this stupid jealousy that Francis saw he had dressed to impress. He wore dark brown boots into which his khakis were tucked, white laces tied knotted perfectly at the top. He had a white button up shirt with a light tan vest and a dark brown tie under the collar of his shirt. Over it, he had his favorite trapping jacket with fur lined around the hood. _Damn,_ Francis scowled,_ he knows I like that look. It's time to up the ante then._

Heading back into his room for the short coffee break, Francis shrugged off his blue military uniform. _Matthieu said he liked black and red on me,_ He mused, staring at the mess of fashionable clothes in front of him_, Hm._

Francis picked out black slacks, a white button up (_almost the same as Matthieu's, _he realized, chuckling), and a red tie. Undoing the top two buttons and loosening the tie, Francis rolled his shirtsleeves up to the elbow. Mussing up his hair a tiny bit, Francis decided he looked as if he had just had a bit of a romp with someone. He liked it. Stopping to pluck a rose from the table arrangement that had been left in his mini-kitchen, Francis returned to the meeting.

There were various countries scattered about the hall, but none of them were Matthieu. Of course, Francis found him in the conference room still, taking notes and tidying up the papers he had received or filled up with notes. He barely glanced up when Francis walked in.

Francis sauntered over to Matthieu's chair, putting on his best air of charm. Holding out the rose in front of Matthieu's paperwork, he leaned down, lips just shy of caressing Matthieu's ear and whispered, "Lunch, mon petit amour?"

Matthieu shrugged and took the rose. Francis now entertained the possibility Matthieu did not like such advances. Then he was the devilish smirk. "I think Alfred, Arthur and I had plans, Monsieur Bonnefoy. Perhaps another time, oui?"

Francis gripped the back of Matthieu's chair, hands on either side of the man's head and said darkly, "Cancel them." He paused and then said a touch more lightly, "Have lunch with me."

"And what shall I receive, Monsieur, that I would not with Alfred or Arthur?"

Francis smirked. The man had to have purposefully walked into that. As he opened his mouth to reply, Ludwig burst in shouting at Feliciano in German and shouting to the rest of the country to get the meeting started. Smiling, Francis said quickly, "Adieu, mon amour," twirling his finger around Matthieu's curl.

He watched the man go tomato red, and noted a slight change in breathing. Francis grinned, hoping he didn't look too predatory, taking his seat next to Angleterre, and l'Amerique.

**So, I've been having emotional trouble, family trouble, and haven't been able to get into my computer. At all. You may be receiving updates from my friend from now on. I'll still be writing, she'll just be editing and making everything look nice and adding an AN. It's a bit of a short update, I know, but... Yeah. it's the weekend. If I can, you'll have another short one on Sunday. It should be of the citrus variety, and then there will either be one more chapter or that will end the story. Love you all who replied, so, here's my response section:  
**

**Illead** - Ah, danke! It's better to have lengthy reviews so I know what people like about it, or don't like.

**JulietGivesUp** - I had to give Kuma some love. ^-^

**dark1988** - Oh, yes, I know! Is in here ^ I actually found it while I was looking up the english version. Really? Wikipedia isn't my most reliable source, but... it's convenient.

**Losuien** - Oh, thanks! I just got tired of Francis being written as an obnoxious pervert, and Matthieu's the one being written most often, so...

**verflores13** - owncode loves you too! Even though she's being failure!owncode right now. Forgive her.

**Dark Void Princess 21** - I love that you're a history nut. You could probably teach me more history than my teacher. And I totally wouldn't mind. Especially if you kept reviewing. Well, Canada in WWI was very minute compared to England or France, so it'd just be a lot of Francis hearing about Canada or such from England. Danke shon! I have to ask, what do you think of Matthieu?


	8. Chapter 8

Francis was quick enough to steal Matthieu away from l'Amerique. Well, not completely. The four of them were going on, as Alfred called it, a 'double-date.' Francis wondered briefly how much of a disaster this lunch was going to be. Flinging it out of his mind, he grabbed Matthieu's hand, walking on the outside edge of their group.

Francis and Matthieu flirted quietly under Alfred and Arthur's bickering. "I still don't know why you saw fit to come along, Monsieur."

Francis shrugged, "Could I resist being away from mon Matthieu whilst he lavishes his affections on other men?"

Glancing at Alfred, he blushed furiously, but smirked at Francis, saying, "Well, I've always had a thing for heroes."

Then as Francis was just getting jealous, Matthieu laughed and said, "Never mind. That's way too weird considering geographical locations."

Winking, Francis said, "I wouldn't mind having you on top of me."

"Oh, shut up, you stupid Yank! I remember you crying to me when you wet the bed!" Arthur shouted, startling the pair out of their world. Alfred just smirked at him, "Says the man who can only be happy when other people need him." Matthieu's small smile turned to a frown, Francis noted. _Time to break this up,_ he decided. "Ah, friends, perhaps it is best to cancel lunch. I would not mind escorting Matthieu back to the hotel whilst you two relieve sexual tension."

_That_ earned him two smacks to the head and the resulting shout, "Yo, dude! That's my bro! Gross!" and "Perverted frog! We will enjoy a nice lunch. Right. Alfred. F. Jones." There was a pause before furious nods. Arthur and the monster brows stomped into the little breakfast cafe. Alfred followed like a puppy, pestering Arthur. And just like that, all was right. Alfred and Arthur were in their world, leaving Francis and Matthieu.

After sitting and receiving food, Francis watched with a small smile on his face as Matthieu inhaled waffles, maple syrup and Canadian bacon with alarming speeds. With nimble fingers, he snaked away a cut piece of bacon, nibbling it as Matthieu's eyes followed his movements with amused, playful fury. "That was my food, you know. Thief."

Francis swallowed his bit of bacon, licking his fingers. He didn't miss the way Matthieu's eyes followed, suddenly heated. "Tres bon, ange. Apologies. Should I ask next time?"

He watched Matthieu stutter and blush, "Y-yeah. Uh, yeah, definitely ask."

Francis smirked sinfully, leaning closer, "Feed me some of those waffles you love so much?" Matthieu's blush deepened, but he leaned closer unconsciously, "S-sure. If you want, eh." He grabbed his fork and cut off a small piece of waffles. Francis 'tch'ed, "Non, non, non, mon ange." He grinned at the tomato red blush and lightening of realization on Matthieu's face.

Even as the man seemed to disappear into the same color of his hoodie, he plucked the piece of waffle off the fork, holding it between his fingers and held it level with Francis's mouth, albeit a few inches away. Francis gripped his wrist, not hard enough to hurt, but firmly, and guided the trembling fingers holding the waffle to his mouth. His lips brushing over Matthieu's fingers, gently taking the bit of waffle. He purposefully swirled his tongue around Matthieu's fingertips, cleaning them of any remaining bits of syrup. Letting go, he watched the frozen, blushing man.

"F-francis," he said hoarsely, "Embrasse-moi."

"That is embarassing, dude, I mean, put on a show like that! That is something Frenchy would do, bring a random guy to lunch," l'Amerique boomed, misinterpreting Matthieu's French.

"Stupid fool!" Francis snarled, "Embrasse-moi is French for-" A warm hand clapped over his mouth, and Matthieu covered adorably, "You're absolutely right, Al! That is French for 'you're embarrassing me!' "

Arthur glared at the pair, "I know French, you know. And _that _is _not_ French for 'you're embarrassing me.' It means 'kiss me.'" He sniffed aloofly. Francis licked the palm covering his mouth in annoyance. _Nothing wrong with saying that outright, non?_

Matthieu looked like he wanted to die as he drew away from Francis. "I-I didn't say that." Francis softened, wrapped his arms around Matthieu and kissed his temple. "Tres bon, ange. Tres bon. I would have, if stupid Amerique had not interrupted."

"Dude, seriously. _Who_ are you cuddling up to?" Alfred had done it. Francis watched as the normally easy-going Canadian exploded into fury, out of Francis's arms and leaning across the table, his tone dangerously quiet.

"My name is Matthew Williams. You met me when we both were colonies of Arthur's! I am Canadia! And no matter how much you forget me, your people still make jokes about running to me during election time! They don't seem to forget that Canadia has always welcomed your people! You are an ignorant blob of cheeseburgers and milkshakes, Alfred F. Jones! And who even names themselves Freedom?! Oh, yeah, a rebellious teenager who wants to get away from his mentor who has done nothing wrong to him! At least I had the fact that Arthur was a horrible mess who, half the time, mistook me for you and kicked me out of the house, screaming about the bloody Yank wanting back! My name is Matthieu Williams and I am done here!" Matthieu stood from his chair in one fluid motion. Francis grabbed his arm, half making a move to stand, but was stopped by, "And oh, yeah, Arthur, got any problems with this?"

That's when Matthieu's warm fingers, firmly gripping his chin, tilting his head back and then there were warm lips on his, and _(ohmondieu_) he wasn't breathing now. Thoughts flitted through his brain like sparrows after a breadcrumb, his chest tightened and his heart swelled. Then everything but his senses was offline. The heady smell of _Matthieu_ that was crisp snow, heady smoke, and lingering maple flooded his mind. (_Mmmn, Matthieu)_, the feel of the Matthieu's chapped lips against his, creating a wonderful friction, the _infuriating_ need for _more_, the sound of blood pounding faster in his ears, the rustle of the fabric of Francis's sleeves as his hands tangled themselves in Matthieu's silky locks. And (_ohs'il vous plaît_)if only Francis could _taste_-

This thought was cut short by Matthieu's absence. "Don't you dare forget me again, Alfred. You too, Arthur," Matthieu panted angrily, before storming out. Francis swallowed, lips still tingling with the feel of Matthieu. As cliché as it was, his fingers ghosted over his lips and he broke out smiling. He heard no angry yell from Angleterre, though surely, it was there. He did, however, see the American's shocked face, staring blankly at him. And that's when he stood, ignoring the waitress bringing their food _(Who needs food?_)  
Running after Matthieu, Francis still did not have enough speed to catch him before he entered the hotel, got in the elevator, and without noticing Francis, let the elevator doors close. Francis cursed, and smashed the poor button until an elevator arrived.

Fifth floor. It's where all the countries were roomed. Francis tapped his fingers impatiently the whole ride up. He was in a _desperate _situation that required service. (_Now._) Francis burst out of the elevator just in time to hear and see the door to room 323 slam shut.

**;n; I'm such an evil person. But when I'm happy you get updates. I swear to god, there's a lemon. Right after this. I swear. On my mother's grave. Well, she's not dead. How about my great-granpa's? R&R. Response Tiem:**

**JulietGivesUp**- I hear that Prince Edward's Island (it's what I've named the curl) is particularly sensitive.

**wiltedroses3**- owncode loves your review and you too! I always feel like I should write him a bit more of a pervert, but, from what you guys tell me, that's a no.

**verflores13** - You are my most loyal reviewer evar. I love you, verflores13.

**Lilith Graves** - You like my story! Uwah, I hope this measures up to any expectations set thus far.

**Illead** - I've never written a combined fic, but if you ever had any ideas, I'd love to! All my love to you too~

**alykat** - I will continue writing! Will you read my other works when I post them? Please?

**Johnny-Jay** - ASHFDIJHADSIGHASDIOHASDK y-you w-want to draw a comic? o-of m-my story?! On one condition. Link me when you post it. :3


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